Bye Bye, Pie!

Fascinating

I never did find the lining of my uterus, so I thought maybe I'd get shelf liner today at Target or something. What say you?

The other day I was at ...friend's, and he was cooking something because he does actually cook, and Ima tell you how well in just a minute, but anyway he had a bottom cupboard open and I noticed some really spiffy brown-and-blue polka-dotted shelf liner down there, that actually looked good with the throw rug he had, and I said, "Oooo, I like your shelf liner!" Because I am a fascinating person.

"....Shelf liner?"

"The polka-dotted stuff. Did you pick it out?"

...friend looked at the cupboard. "I've never once noticed that shelf liner in all the time I've lived here. Also, do I really seem like the go-out-and-buy-shelf-liner type?"

Only a boy would live somewhere for more than two years and never notice shelf liner. There have been too many times I've had to cease unpacking because I had to run out and get shelf liner I could stand. I mean, you see that every day for the rest of time.

Or not. If you're a boy.

At any rate, ...friend had offered to come assist me in my hour of need last night, and really, when am I NOT having hours of need? Nevertheless, he offered to assist in this PARTICULAR hour, the hour of no uterine lining. "Can I bring you dinner or anything? How about Thai?"

Well, that sounded absolutely delicious BEFORE my surgery, but once I had some nausea, and once I got my discharge papers that said eat bland things, I changed my mind on the Thai.

"I can have (a) a baked potato and (b) rice, according to my papers," I told him, because perhaps I have not mentioned I am the most fascinating person on earth. "Well, I can make you those things," said ...friend, who recently has begun to cook in an effort to be healthier. He really is kind of healthy. That makes one of us.

"I can make this rice dish," he said. "It involves avocado, too."

I would sell my mother for avocado. I would gleefully take all four pets to the pound, stampede them right to the gas room, for avocado. Go a week without hair gel? For avocado? Sign me up.

So ...friend comes over with all kinds of things, including rice, and then had the audacity to ask for stuff like a cheese grater and a cutting board. Has he met my kitchen? Fortunately I scrounged that stuff up, from deep in the pyramids, because you know how often I'm getting out the implements.

"Do you have a measuring cup?"

JESUS CHRIST! Who does he think I AM, Julia Child? "I do have a measuring cup, but I use it for the dog food," I said. "...wait! I think I have weird measuring spoon/cup things from Ikea somewhere," I put on my Indiana Jones hat and plundered the secret tombs of my kitchen.

I did find this olive-green cup that measured...2/3 of an ounce.

"How many cups are in two-thirds of an ounce?" asked ...friend, who was totally over me.

My point is, he put a bunch of rice on to boil and said, "We don't have to stand in the kitchen anymore," which quite possibly could be my favorite words in my native tongue, other than "free kittens."

So we sat on the couch while the rice boiled, and the thing is, often we are over there trying to out-funny each other, and I have the feeling being around ...friend and me is annoying for anyone who isn't us. Tallulah often rolls her eyes at us. Iris would, too, if she had eyes. So there we were, thinking we were funny, when I started to smell...rice burning.

"#$@&!" said ...friend, dashing up.

Yeah. Also, what a clear photo. Perhaps we could start ...friend and June Cooking and Photography School.

why yu roooin rice, Uncle ...friend?

So you know what we ended up doing? Going out for Thai. I KNOW. I got those leaves that Tall Boy and I got that one time. Remember I told you about them? They're some kind of, I don't know, LEAF, firmer than floppy lettuce but not like you're eating a succulent or anything. Some kind of cabbage, maybe? What do I know?

The point is, the leaves come with teensy cute bowls of the thinnest-sliced limes and peanuts and toasted coconut and some kind of hi-I'm-Asian sauce and teensy minced onions and ginger and oh! You throw all that on your rubber-tree-plant leaf or whatever and IT IS DELICIOUS.

...friend got some kind of chicken dish (the first person to say, "I thought ...friend was vegetarian" gets slapped with my uterus. What's left of it. I do not know HOW this thought entered everyone's brain but he is 100% NOT VEGETARIAN. I think you must all have him confused with Tall Boy, who I dated for four weeks back in the fall, and I do not know why that stuck inside you all like a barnacle.) and guess what he got with said dish. Guess.

"Oh! I got rice! Would you like some?"

Yeah.

So, anyway, that was my evening, and I feel pretty okay today except I could go for a nap. It's 10:30 and I could go for a nap.

Perhaps I did not mention to you that I am the most fascinating person on earth.

The point is...

Faithful Reader Mrs. ridiculous Oh made this. She is berserk.

Speaking of my dogs, and I know you are all happy I just started that way, last night we played a rousing game of where's the treat, where I hide treats around the house like it's dog Easter, because it was raining and Edsel was getting distinctly nervous about the thunder.

Tallulah yesterday afternoon, when the weather was getting ominous. She senses weather with her tongue. Like a snake.

All his life, which is, you know, a year and seven months but still, he has never acted nervous about thunderstorms, and then last night he kept looking at me with a concerned expression, and placing his head on my lap.

My POINT is, I started the game to distract him, and he kept finding the treats, but sometimes they fall out his mouth, because his bottom teeth don't exactly line up. I don't know if you've ever noticed this. He has a bit of an underbite.

Edzul do?

So AGAIN, getting to the POINT, and now I sound like my college roommate, who would take 96 hours to tell a story and then say, "But the point is..." and at that point you had hung yourself from a noose seven hours previous.

The TREATS kept falling out his MOUTH, and even though he found them fair and square, Talu would swoop right under him and eat the fallen food. I felt so bad for him that eventually I just GAVE him treats without making him look for them.

But you know what happened? Do you? He was lording over a treat, and Talu came over in her usual bossy way, and Edsel STOOD HIS GROUND. He got right over it and showed her his fierce fangs and he GROWLED. At TALU! No one growls at Talu.

And you know she crumpled like a house of cards? She kept looking at him out the side of her face, like, You sereeus? But he was. He was sereeus. I have never seen Eds take a stand before.

Oh, dear, I hope they don't kill each other in a turf war now.

It'll probably be okay.

In other news, I am cat-sitting for Tall Boy this weekend.

Ohmygod, I just had the best idea. I should get him a new blanket. Like, a Hello Kitty blanket or something. Replace that awful one he has.

I am linking a lot today. I am the missing link.

My POINT is, and wow, I really cannot get to any points today, he took me to lunch to thank me in advance.

Yeah, dude! We totally went to Sonic. What's poppin'? My arteries.

Oh.hell.yeah.

And yes. Tall Boy IS a vegetarian, and he got jalapeno poppers and onion rings. And I introduced him to the cranberry lime-aid, which is the best invention on God's planet.

June. Influencing the diets of healthy vegetarian people since 1965. When she eschewed formula and ordered a pizza.

Anyway, he says I can totally look through his things while I cat sit, and what say we have a total All Things From Tall Boy's House day on this blog? Fun!

I wonder what color coat he'll take on his trip?

Anyway, I guess that's all I have to tell you. TB loaned me a book written by Jeffrey Dahmer's father and it is riveting. I have work to do today and all I want to do is keep reading that book. Can you imagine? You're a normal person and you raise a serial killer who is also a cannibal and oh! Also a necrophiliac?

Dear Mom,

Things could be worse.

Love,

June

Okay, going. I got an email that my workout videos are on their way. Am I thin yet?

A post about everything and nothing. Aka what else is new.

I just got back from having dinner with The Other June, and I am writing this before I go to bed. I have a dentist appointment early Thursday morning, so I am writing my post at night, and let me tell you. Things are fascinating over here at House of June.

I hate getting my teeth cleaned. It makes me nervous. And my dentist always comes in after and says, "Mmm. MMMMM! Oh, mmmm. Yeah, how long have you had that old filling?" He's always trying to get ye olde filling replaced that Benjamin Franklin put in for me in 1742, and hadn't Benjamin Franklin been long dead by 1742? June. Knowing her history.

Anyway, my blacksmithed filling is still working FINE, and I don't see why it can't stay in there. It makes a great weather vane, too!

In other news, The Other June and I had a delicious dinner at a pretentious restaurant that serves Southern food, which is kind of redundant. I mean, we're in the South. It's kind of funny to me that they have a fancy restaurant where you can go get...Southern food. Nevertheless, everything was just effing delicious and I highly recommend it. It's called the Southern something-or-other. Get there tout suite.

After dinner, The O.J. came to my house so she could meet Iris and Lily. In the time she has known me, she has met baby Henry,

Baby Roger:

Baby Anderson Cooper:

and now baby Iris.

(I didn't just take that while she's right here on me or anything.) (purring and clutching the pearls.)

Could I stop PLOWING THROUGH CATS, PLEASE?

Also, she came to visit not-baby Lily.

*You understand Lily pretty-est cat ever. That go wifout saying.*

Lily gets her own font, with asterisks, she is so pretty.

And in case you wonder what the hell happened to all those cats because you just got here last Tuesday or something, Marvin took Henry when he left, then delicate, gay Anderson hated living with dogs so I said to Marvin, "Maybe you'd better take Anderson too." So now Anderson and Henry live in connubial bliss, even though I don't really know what connubial means. Then Roger got killed last month and let's talk about that a lot because that doesn't still make me miserable to think about our anything, so I got Iris and Lily at the pound just now.

Anyway. Oh! And before I got up with The Other June and we had our redundant Southern food and she once again met some cats I got, I got me a manicure over at the Elegant Nails & Tan. To which I say, "Define elegant."

My point is, my manicurist talked me into getting this gel manicure, which supposedly will stay on for the rest of my life.

The color is Lincoln Park After Dark, and I had better like it, because apparently I'm being buried in it.

We had a big talk, the manicurist and I, about how she studied French in high school and then in college studied accounting and forgot all her French, then got here and knew very little English. I always wonder how bad it must be to have to move here, give up all that schooling, thrust yourself into a country where you don't know the language, and have to work six days a week as a manicurist.

She works way more than 40 hours a week. She works the whole time the salon is open. How dreadful. Oh! And the woman next to me works for the place that invented those faces on trees. You know how you can buy those woody-looking faces for your tree? Yeah. Also, before she left for her manicure, she told her husband, "I put dinner in the oven, but you have to check it once in awhile." He said, "Well, what am I looking for?"

She was irritated. Also there were two women there getting pedicures and drinking wine. The woman who invented the tree faces told me those women come in all the time. Bring their own cooler. I noticed it took them an hour and a half to drink one glass of wine. What is the point of schlepping a whole cooler of alcohol to the pedicure place if you're not going to drink alcoholically?

I guess that's all I have to tell you. Except that we have a new woman at work and I love her. Today she wore a leopard skirt, a pink shirt with a big flowery frilly thing, and pink sparkly shoes. And she has this framed print in her office that is a picture of Cinderella, and the picture is from the book I had as a kid.

I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about this picture but then it all came back to me. This lead me to bring in my fairy tale book from my childhood, which had the most beautiful pictures:

Oh, I used to sit for hours and stare at these pictures. Here is lofty Edsel-looking wolf putting his paw on Little Red June.

I always wanted to find elf and bird tea parties. And did I? Not till I did hallucinogens in college.

I actually have never done hallucinogens. Unless you count Benadryl, which makes me see funny colors and jump off high-rises because suddenly I have peacock wings that fly.

Dude, my swan allergies are killing me. Dude, my princess allergies are killing ME!

I should totally frame these, shouldn't I? Aren't they beautiful? When I really couldn't read I used to make up stories that went with them, kind of like now with the swan allergy story. Not much has changed through the years, except now I apparently have Lincoln Park on my nails for life.

Hold still, darling, and we'll just jooge your flower a little and--voila! FABULOUUUUS! Ernesto, bring that mirror, you lazy antelope. You'd let the lion eat you if it meant moving off the plain while Real Serengeti Wives was on. Oh, sweetheart, you're GORGEOUS! I could EAT YOU UP if I weren't a grass-eating queen!

Maybe I need to get out more.

Talk to you tomorrow, when I have sparkly new teeth. I mean, except for ye olde fyllyng from Geoffrey Chaucer.

You've got the teeth of a hydra upon you. You're dirty sweet and you're my girl. (Have you ever paid attention to the lyrics to Bang a Gong? It has nothing whatsoever to do with this post. Still.)

First of all, Dick Whitman finally emailed me pictures from when he really was over on Sunday.

He was pretty taken by my adult, not-at-all-excessively-pink ornaments.

What if I meet some sort of really manly man, and I fall deeply in love with him, and he's all plaid wallpaper and mounted fish and dark leather and no-nonsense? How is my pink frilly stuff gonna blend in? Or what if I fall for some goth character, with spikes and skulls and Goya paintings? How is that gonna work? I guess I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

Anyway, Laurie took a picture of Dick the Whitman and me and you can see it did not turn out so, you know, focusedly. IT'S NOT SO EASY, IS IT, LAURIE?

Maybe it's my house. My house encourages fuzzy photography.

Dick Whitman also took this picture of my many many many chins and Edsel. I'd like to point out my shoes, which were given to me by my Pal from MA, because she knows me. They are pink and tulle and girly. There just went my epitaph.

Edsel is over there thinking about how much he loves me. Even when I am noticing him he pines for me. He is pathetic, really.

I guess that's all I have to tell you about my holiday decorating, which has now stretched into a Very Special two-part extravaganza, except that I failed to mention the depressing part where I had to set aside Marvin's nod-to-Hanukkah stuff, and his stocking, and his guitar ornament and so forth for him to come get. Christmas. That very special time of year when regularly depressing stuff seems extra super depressing.

In other news, I had a salad.

Righteous. Actually it looks disgusting in this picture. It's like I had lettuce and glistening tongues and eyeballs and coils and bloody stumps and veins. Mmmm!

Technically, I had very few of those things. It was spinach and eggs and carrots and cantaloupe. Did you ever see that funny cartoon where the couple is playing Scrabble and the woman has all the letters and she has them lined up and they spell carrost?

 

Marvin and I have pronounced it "carrost" ever since we first watched this.

Let's saw! That was only funny if you just sat there and watched that stupid cartoon.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh! Right. I ate a salad (see above). Then?

A pecan chocolate-covered apple. Because apples are good for you.

I wouldn't say I have a pecan chocolate OBSESSION. I mean, have I mentioned that combo before? How long have you known me? There are plenty of things I've been way obsessier about than pecans and chocolate. Still. This was delicious. Not as good as tongues and veins and coils.

But what is?

Tomorrow night I am driving out to TinyTown, as I have been invited to attend the choir party for the church where I used to secretary. And if you think that sounds like a sinless, dull, reading-from-the-Old-Testament time, clearly you have never partayyyed with Episcopalians and their brown-liquor selves. Am beside self with excitement. Can't wait to see everyone.

Okay. Am off. Now you can all get back to talking about crock pots in the comments.

The post-Thanksgiving report

Yesterday I had turkey. You?

I joined my friend Laurie, who is a capable adult, and please note the part where I tend to hang around capable adults. However, THAT TURKEY WAS MADE BY ME. And purchased by me. With a little help from a lesbian.

And dear lesbian readers, am I offensive when I make these jokes? I hope not. Please come slap me with your lesbian livers if I am.

As usual, I was helpful and mature in the kitchen, and not at all such a pain in the arse that you just wanted me out of there.

This, of course, is not a skill I have crafted over the years or anything. "Hah haa! Okay, June. Now real work has to commence. Go watch TV."

In my own way, I am a genius.

Laurie, being an actual real photographer, and note how I find THOSE to hang around with, too, with my narcissistic self, told me to go outside so she could photograph me, and we discussed how I am a lovely friend because I do not do the annoying, "Oh! I HATE pictures of myself!" thing.

Dear people who say that: Get over yourselves. We all have to look at you all the time. If you hate seeing a picture of you, just don't look. Let us snap the damn photo and move on. Or I'll have all the lesbians come slap you with their livers.

Speaking of livers, Laurie asked, "Will it bother you if I have a glass of wine?" and I never want people to feel like they can't go ahead and drink in front of me. I mean, watching people get DRUNK is annoying, but normal drinkers are fine for me.

Except OH MY GOD she is such a normal drinker. She poured that ding-dang glass of wine and TWO HOURS LATER there was still some in the glass. And she'd leave it over across the room, forgetting about it, whereas I would have duct-taped it to my hand. Finally, I said, "Are you EVER gonna drink the rest of that wine?"

Not that I was obsessed with it or anything.

Laurie, when she wasn't ignoring perfectly good alcohol, and talk about your alcohol abuse, noted that my Latisse is really kicking in. Hello, lashes! I used to use the blackest of black mascara and I'm starting to think I should move on to brown-black so I don't look so harsh. I mean, you used to never be able to SEE my eyelashes before this.

Straight male readers...?

I know how we can get them back. PILLSBURY PENIS ROLLS!

It was my job to roll the crescent rolls, and folks, what the hell is wrong with me? Why can I not roll them in the nice crescent shape? That one in the middle looks exactly like when Edsel has the lipstick out. I'm sorry but it does. The rest are like Vermicious Knids. What the Sam Hill? Can anyone identify what I do WRONG, because this is not the first time I have made this tactical error.

Despite this, Laurie trusted me with sharp implements, although note she only let me play with the end of a carrot. And if you're thinking my little cherry barrette is cute, I used to, too, and this morning I got up and Edsel had eaten it.

Finally it was time to eat, and I got a glass of traditional Thanksgiving urine and we were set to go. I said, "Let's not eat like my dogs, where they stare down at their bowl and consume everything in sight then look up for more after they've licked the plastic. Let's enjoy this."

Eight minutes later, we looked up from our empty plates for more.

Oh! We were stuffed. We were not even able to have dessert, so later this weekend Laurie is coming to have pie with June of the Pie.

Afterwards, I said, "Let me help clean up" with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and Laurie said, "No, I got it" and I said "NO NO, let me help" as I got my coat and she said, "Really. I've got it." Please note that DAMN GLASS OF WINE that she never finished.

Anyway, it was a lovely THANKSgiving, as they say here, and I was grateful to have Laurie to spend it with me. Mostly because otherwise I would have had just turkey. And a messy kitchen. And who would have photographed me all day?

Now I have to get ready because I'm (sit down) having brunch with DICK WHITMAN'S MOM today!

!!!!!

Hi, Dick Whitman's mom!

Am so excited I could spit. She STILL reads this blog. Half the time I'll hear from Dick Whitman and he'll start out with, "My mom tells me [insert June life event here]." I wish I had met her on Match. We'd still be together.

Do not fret. I will be reporting on this fabulous meeting of Dick Whitman's mom--my birthday twin--tomorrow. And we will begin our good deed project. And keep sending in your photos! I love how almost everyone has included a pet. You all know me too well.

Happy Thanksgiving! Or for you international readers, have a lovely Thursday!

It's Thanksgiving! I'm up! I do not WISH to be up early on a holiday, and I realize those of you who are grownups have already BEEN up for 109 hours, gutting your turkey or whatever, and believe it or not I have to also too take the innards out my turkey. Can I feed the inside parts to the dogs?

I can Google this, but go ahead and send me hysterical "NO JUNE! YOU WILL POIIIIIISON YOUR DOGS!" comments. I like how dogs can eat strange poop (as opposed to normal poop) and Dortios bags and half-rotten Kongs they find under the shed in the spring but one single grape is gonna murder them dead.

I am going to celebrate this delightful day of giving smallpox to Native Americans with my friend Laurie, who is a faithful reader and also an overachiever. My father was going to come here for Thanksgiving, all the way from Albuquerque just like Bugs Bunny,

 

(I adore YouTube) (what made Bugs Bunny think that orange thing was a flattering ensemble? Also he has the same coloring as Roger. I never thought about that before. And they have the same-sized feets.)

but wouldn't you know I got a statistics textbook to proofread, and I really super extra cannot turn down the extra money at this juncture, so I was all, "Come for Thanksgiving! Right after dinner I have to completely ignore you!" So we decided he is going to come in the spring when his seasonal allergies should kill him, and we are having Thanksgiving in April.

Anyway, this lead to Laurie and me deciding to have Thanksgiving together, and 18 seconds later she emailed me an entire menu, in Thanksgiving-color font, with a turkey gleefully holding up the headline, as if a turkey would be gleefully having anything to do with a menu wherein he was the main course.

I told Laurie I would make the turkey, which was generous of me, seeing as that leaves her with the other 10 items. Why does anyone like me? But since everyone has such low expectations of me, the paramedics had to be called that I even knew HOW to make a turkey.

"You WILL?" she asked.

Then a few days ago, she emailed me to remind me to get the turkey, and I emailed back, all incredulous. "Of COURSE I'll get the turkey. GOD."

I would have never remembered to get the turkey. I would have gotten there and been all, where's the turkey? Aren't we having turkey? Geez, Laurie. I thought you were an overachiever.

So I go to the store, where as you can imagine no people were milling about looking haggard and miserable, and I get to the turkey section and HOLY CRAP was that overwhelming.

They had fresh turkeys that yelled at you and pinched your hind parts, frozen turkeys that had had botox, Butterball turkeys that ate a lot of In-and-Out Burger, store-brand turkeys that were probably cheap for the bargain shopper but that is not me and see above re statistics book and now you know everything that is wrong with me, and Martha Stewart turkeys for $40.

And listen here, Martha damn Stewart. I don't know what kind of entitled rich lady world you live in, but here on planet AMERICA we do not have any FORTY DOLLARS to spend on your stupid turkey--who lived unmoving in a cage somewhere like all the other turkeys--just because you've wrapped it in pretty blue-and-white plastic. You snooty WASP.

So I was overwhelmed. And yelling at Martha Stewart in my mind. When this nice lesbian women came up. And I know it is not nice to stereotype, but, folks, girlfriend was a lesbian. And if she wasn't, she needs to have a good talk with herself about why she prefers a buzz cut and walks like John Wayne.

She stands over next to me, looking at Martha damn Stewart's pretentious turkeys, and I'd like to state for the record SHE DID NOT GET ONE, EITHER, MARTHA, so if you were trying for the gay demographic, good luck, there.

"Do you find this overwhelming?" I asked Buzz LikeGirls.

"I find it expensive," she said. "Normally this breast (stop with the obvious joke, you guys. Geez.) is bloop de bloo dollars, and just because it's Thanksgiving they want bleee dee dee blee."

I was totally bored by the how-much-groceries-cost talk, and also amazed that people make turkeys when it isn't Thanksgiving.

"So, if you make turkey when it isn't Thanksgiving, you can probably tell me. Can I buy a fresh turkey today and it'll be okay on Thursday?"

Christopher Walken-Like-John-Wayne paused, like that was the weirdest question she had ever heard, and I love to read what she is saying about me in her blog. "Well, yes, ma'am. ('Ma'am.' We were the same age if we were a day.) See, here? 'Best by 11/27.' You're fine to eat this on Thanksgiving."

"Well, that's what I thought, but I didn't get why, if you could buy fresh, you'd buy frozen."

I still don't get that. Groceries. They confuse me.

Anyway, I thanked that woman for her help and as I was leaving said, "If I die from eating this turkey, Ima come back and haunt you."

And with total seriousness, she said, "Oh, please don't do that. I have so many people who're already haunting me."

Who wanted to throw her fresh Butterball on the floor and sit right in the refrigerated aisle and hear all about THAT? WHOOOO is haunting this poor woman? Why do people have to say interesting things right when you're leaving?

So, anyway. That was my turkey debacle. And now he is sitting in there waiting for me to reach inside and yank his guts out.

Don't forget to take a photo today and send it to me for my photo project. You have till Sunday to get it to me, and I did that because if you are at your mom's house, she may have no way to email a photo. I mean, that may or may not be the case at my own mother's house, and I was picturing the part where you all go around the table and say what you are thankful for, and you are bursting into tears because you couldn't participate in June's photo project and therefore are thankful for nothing.

At any rate, my email address is on--I think--the right side of this blog. And if it's not it's on the left side, genius. Be sure to tell me what time of day it was for you and where in the world geographically you are.

I am thankful for all of you, my little blog family. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Or Thursday. You international readers are so cranky.

Where everybody knows your name

Before I begin, I would just like to thank Tallulah for becoming a 6,000-pound LUMP once she gets into bed. A 6,000-pound lump that cannot be budged no matter what you do. Old Ton-ya Harding, over there, was on all the blankets last night and I slept under one-eighth of an inch of sheet in the freezing cold. Thanks, Talu. I enjoy your every fiber right now.

Lu sleeped gud. {stretssh.}

Look at that damn floor. How that floor vexes me. I must fix it.

Oh, and also, it's my mother's birthday today.

Go, June's mom. It's your birthday. Gonna party like it's your birthday. Drink Bacardi like it's your birthday. Reference songs from 2000 like it's your birthday.

Later today, mom will be telling me precisely how many phone calls and cards and lunches and well-wishes she got. Yes, she counts. Yes, her best friend and I tell her this is annoying. She tells us annually anyway.

And speaking of Bacardi, I got something to tell you.

Some of you know I don't drink. I mean, you know this because I have said so on this blog. Or you know this because you know me in real life. I have been a not-drinker for a long time now, probably about as long as that stupid birthday song above has been in existence. Before that, I was, you know, quite the drinker. It was my area of expertise.

I do not talk about it a lot because the way I went about not drinking anymore is

ANONYMOUS

and you aren't supposed to go blabbing about it in public. Of course, I'd be more than willing to talk with anyone about it privately via email or whatever.

At any rate, things were going along nicely and I'd be all, "Oh cranberry juice for me, please!" it so on.

Then I don't know if you noticed this, but Marvin moved out and a few months later I started dating. Did you notice that? Did you pick up on that subtle change in my life?

Well. The very first date I went on, which was with Dick Whitman--he is the George Washington of my foray into dating. The Adam. The Kelly Clarkson--I was as nervous as a cat. I hadn't been on a date since Clinton was president. And he hadn't even dated Monica Lewinski yet. I mean, I was tense. So I ordered a Pinot Grigio. I'd never had a Pinot Grigio--that had been invented while I was sober. But Ramona on Real Housewives drinks them like water, so I wanted to try one.

And we were off and running. By the way, Dick Whitman feels personally responsible for me drinking again and that is ludicrous. It's no one's responsibility but mine, obviously. Oh, okay. Dick Whitman, you DROVE ME TO DRINK! It was the orange polka-dot shirt!

And for me, I'm not that dramatic of a drunk. I mean, when my friends got together with me and I--gasp!--ordered a drink, a few said, "Are you okay?" but most said, "I never really thought you were an alcoholic anyway."

Which by the way? If you have a friend who is in a recovery program? Do not say that. Please.

My point is, five months I've been drinking now, and the other night I was on a date. Shut up. I know I'm on a man break. I met a really nice boy, and no, I didn't meet him on Match.com, and I do not want to jinx it yet with details but so far it's like Central Casting has said, "Let's plop down a really excellent boy for June." Okay, he likes Rush. But in his spare time he works with an animal rescue organization. I think the latter cancels out the former.

MY POINT IS, which I know I already said, he and I went out Saturday night and I had one drink with him, and after he dropped me off I drove out in the middle of the night and bought wine at the grocery store. I had negative 16 dollars in checking so I used a credit card.

And it occurred to me. This is not normal behavior. A person does not need to go out late at night to get wine for herself and a person does not need to CHARGE WINE if she is a, you know, normal drinker.

So I called a friend and last night we might have gone somewhere

ANONYMOUS

and what I like about myself is how subtle I am.

Hey! Maybe I should do a corkscrew giveaway! I have a really good one.

So that is all my news that is fit to print.

And by the way, the kittens are recovering just fine. Delighted to be able to be picked up and posing for the webcam again. "dis fun, mom. andersun having a ball."

Did I mention I hate my computer?

Blogging from work would be wrong. And that is why I am not doing it right now.

Computer COMPLETELY dead at home. Dead. Dead dead dead. Stick a fork in it. The fat lady has sung. Unfortunately, that fat lady is me.

I blame work. If someone is gonna BRING chocolate-chip cookies stuffed with Oreos, what am I to do? IGNORE them? They won't be IGNORED.

Also? While I am not blogging from work? I have had this photo on my desktop for the longest time...

Oh. Wait. That is not the picture I wanted to put in...

Here it is. This is my coworker TinaDoris' puppy, with the toy I gave her. My dogs never once played with this and my mother spent $800,000 on it. You are supposed to put treats in the bottle and the dogs are supposed to figure it out. The dogs reacted the same way I do when I see Sudoku.

So at least Penny, here, likes the rope part. I love her.

I know! June loves an animal! Sound the alarm!

I had better go, because I have to, um, go to work. Because I am not at work already. Nosir. But before I do I want to tell you that (a) I am getting a new computer TOMORROW after Tallulah's vet appointment (nothing wrong with her. Just general shots and telling me she weighs too much and sticking something up her bung to check for worms. Basically she will adore me tomorrow) and (4) I see The Fireman tonight.

Oh! And I was in the spare room, not to sound like The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe, and I saw this outside my window:

Oh, piffle.

There we go. Geez. Blogging from...home...certainly is an adjustment. 

Anyway, how pretty! In all the overgrown jungle that is my back yard a flower has grown! A flower grows in Greensboro. And yes I DID traipse out there in this driving rain, in case anyone is local and knows of the monsoon we are experiencing currently.

Okay, I'd better...get to work!

 

 

A lift of the puny

In case you were worried sick and barfing on your dining room rug, everyone here seems to be on the mend.

Tallulah was still feeling puny yesterday. And it doesn't bug me when they throw that pillow on the floor or anything.

But today she and Edsel seem to be back to their ludicrous selves. Eating the kittens, getting in my way with EVERY STEP I TAKE like they're members of the Police, fighting each other over toys and food and, you know, kitten necks.

It's good to have them back.

not shur anderson agree with assessmint, mom.

Because everyone looked like they would live, I was able to join my most excellent friend Chatting at the Sky for frozen custard.

No. I have no idea why I can't shed the weight. And by the way, anyone asks you for frozen custard, you go. You go, girl. Because apparently it's 1996. Talk to the hand.

Frozen custard is way better than frozen yogurt. Puleeze. It is Coco Chanel to Old Navy. It is Anais Nin to Erica Jong. It is -- okay, I can't think of any more but you feel me. I ordered Vanilla Wafer topping and Chatting said, "Okay, healthy."

Healthy. Because that entire meal (and yes, it was dinner for me) was balanced and uplifting. "Well, MY topping's gonna be Heath Bar, so compared to me it's healthy."

And that is why friends are good. Their decadence makes you seem saintly.

Speaking of saintly, Chatting has a new book out. I know! How cool is she? It's all about how she grew up being good and all Christian and so forth and how it made her different.

Do you know what I like about Chatting? I mean other than the fact that she puts up with me calling her Chatting? Is that we talk like madwomen and she's all Christian and faithful and I'm such a heathen. And never once does she judge me and I never judge her and we never try to change each other because I think there's nothing we would change. I think she's the bomb.

I am Christian you are not. doo-dah. doo-dah. I am Christian you are not, all the livelong day. I am Christian, yay! You are Christian, nay.

I think oftentimes, those of us not in an organized religion get this attitude that everyone who's IN an organized religion is gonna convert us. Kind of like how some people get the mistaken attitude that gay people will try to convert them. But in my experience, neither group has tried to lure me in.

Maybe I am completely undesirable to everyone.

I don't know. I'm just saying. Chatting's faith is a huge part of her life, and my higher power is mascara, and yet there we sat for an hour and a half, never running out of stuff to say and never running out of stuff we agree on.

Oh, and speaking of which, that Diorshow was a total disappointment to me. It wears off by the end of the day. Am questioning my faith in Dior cosmetics.

Oh, oh! And for those of you who are praying people, I am getting on a motorcycle this weekend and your good thoughts thrown my way are appreciated. Yes, I am. Yes, it is The Fireman's doing. Yes, I am pretending to be daring and whimsical so I can reel him in and go back to my fearful bitchy self. I mean, if I live through this.

Actually, I have always wanted to ride on a motorcycle, for some reason. So now's my chance. My mother said, "Are you wearing a helmet?"

"Yes, of course. He is bringing one for me."

"Is he bringing one that'll fit your hair?"

Now, won't she feel bad when I am smashed to smithereens and that's the last thing she ever said to me?

At least my last meal was frozen custard.

 

Tomatoes and toilet paper

My life is ridiculous.

Whose fault do you think this is? Has some annoying kitten finally discovered the joy of unrolling toilet paper? Has some idiot dog torn it down with his or her front flea teeth, all delicate-like?

Wuzzn't us! why you think we do thing like dat? we enjoy shuuz and books to ruin.

Anderson offense. How you think little gray spider kitty do such terrible activtee?

eff off. rodger eatin'.

Perhaps ripping toilet paper makes a kitty hungry. Those felines tend to be in cahoots about everything, so I blame them both.

Oh, and I have been meaning to AAAAACKKKKK!

Really. Even you know the coffee pot is going to beep at this point and you don't live here. When Ima get past it?

Anyway, I have been meaning to tell you. The other day I looked in the car next to me, because I wanted to glare at the driver over there, as she had done something stupid earlier and now I forget what. The reason I forget WHAT is because when I glared in there? With my frightening "You've annoyed June" glare?

The person in the car was talking on a purple toy phone.

I am not even making this up. It was plastic, and had a twisty cord, and was one of those old-fashioned handley things like we used to talk into way back in the '80s. WAY BACK. (It feels like last week.)

Like a handle like this. I do not know why I can't drop the subject of what specific kind of device she was  talking into. I guess I was just excited I could get up and photograph my retro phone. Also, why am I keeping my broken coffeepot over on the counter, there? What's the point? I'm like my Uncle Leo when he wore two watches because one was broken.

But could we get back to the subject at hand? Which is the damn crazy lady next to me with the purple toy phone?

We had been at a red light, but of course then I had to catch up to her to make sure I wasn't hallucinating, as I do. Nope. Middle-class-looking woman in a fancy car, by herself, talking on a purple toy phone.

Oh, how I wish I knew the story of what happened with THAT nutbar when she got home. Perhaps she was phoning home.

That is all I have to tell you, except that my neighbor came over last night and you know what irks the crap out of me? Is when someone knocks on my door or my phone rings the minute I get home.  Nevertheless, my neighbor had a huge bowl of tomatoes she had grown and was giving them away.

Not Peg. You guys think the only neighbors I have are Peg and the dead lady. This is a woman a few doors down, next to the serial killer guy who had 87 trees and a long ZZ Top beard and who never comes outside except on trash day. Her name (tomato lady, not ZZ Top guy) is Mimi and she has a bulldog and is divorced. I like her.

The point is, I had me a tomato sandwich for dinner, and then I sliced a tomato and put some olive oil and balsamic vinegar on it, and at about 9:00 I had ANOTHER tomato with just pepper. Looking forward to the canker sores.

If I get some, I'll call you on my toy phone.